


Found and lost

by Askell



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: But not the kind of kid you expect, Comfort, Cyborgs, Death, Denial but who are they fooling (certainly not themselves), Disabled Character, Enterprise Family, Feelings, Fluff, Grumpy Bones, Idiots in Love, Kids, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Mind Meld, One shameless reference, Psychic Psycho, T'hy'la, Time Travel, Timey-Wimey shenanigans, Y'all'd've, different POVs, sort of character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 16:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell
Summary: When duty calls, you answer. Even if it's in a strange language coming from a planet which is definitely not supposed to be there.





	Found and lost

During three point nine of the five years constituting the USS Enterprise-A’s, Commander Spock had become, if not accustomed, used to some of the Human’s quirks and illogical whims. He was also informed that using kink as a synonym of quirk had a sexual connotation among Humans that mislead them into thinking he had intended to use humor. He had not.

Unannounced and improvised dances had no effect on his patience anymore, nor did the random singing sessions his crewmates did for no other reason than to voice their boredom aloud, with the intent of provoking gregarious behavior. Which usually succeeded. Commander Spock had also been informed that deepening his culture of 20th to 22th century “Disney” movies could improve his understanding of the phenomenon. It did not. 

He was, however, able to determine that hand-drawn and computer-generated movie sequences were one of the first instances of planet-wise cultural spread socialisation in Earth’s History. Fascinating.

Spock did, however, understand the emotions conveyed by those “anime”. Though he did not feel misplaced empathy for the characters as Humans did, he realised with great surprise that the exotic nature of such media appealed to him on a level greater than simple aesthetics. His self-preservation instincts however informed him that such personal taste should, under no circumstance, be revealed to Mr. Sulu. Unless he intended to be routinely bothered about that fact during the rest of the journey.

Meditating in lieu of a rest which would have been a waste of time with how close his working shift was, his thoughts drifted towards New Vulcan. More specifically, to the message he had received forty-nine hours ago. As he had retrospectively suspected, his bonded had not been on the planet when Nero executed his retribution and the billion lives present.

As a resident of New Vulcan, she had a duty of repopulation which could not be denied, in the aftermath of the genocide. Which Spock understood and felt no emotions toward. Said lack of reaction was, given the circumstances and the nature of their union, abnormal. In this situation, logic dictated that any able Vulcan should offer genetic material to what remained of the Academy of Sciences for sampling and reproducing. But, the nature of their bond should have initiated a general attitude of possessiveness at the announcement that she had taken Stonn as her regular breeding partner. Instead he had recognized her logic and sent his agreement, which she didn’t need.

In a later conversation, they had both agreed that if such bond had ever existed between them, it was a weak one which broke most likely because they had both external interests. Excellent as she was at resorbing any emotional response, jealousy had always been hinted by the 0.3mm rise of her left eyebrow whenever he happened to mention Lieutenant Uhura, or James Tiberius Kirk. While he understood her reaction to the first, he did not regarding the latter. 

While possible, a romantic attraction to the same gender was not the Vulcan way. 

-o-

Human socialization process was as impressively creative as it was predictable, once one tried to empathise with them. It was not an easy process. 

Of the many non-rules, which were not always applicable, though the logic of when and how completely failed him, “movie night” was one of the most foreseeable. Especially since the concept of night is unpractical in space. It involved an often silent, small-group gathering of friends (and friends of friends, which left him most perplex) on a shared couch which did not leave enough space for comfort, in front of replicated unhealthy “junk” food (which had to be eaten in a barbaric, obscene way i.e. without any hollowware). To watch a two-dimensional movie. Which was not allowed to be commented aloud, save for reiterating key sentences though they were just enunciated, and laughing.

Safely sat in an ergonomical position, on a separate seat with balanced food of his own, Spock only endured the event to avoid the unnecessary and work-impeding mild annoyance of his crewmates. Decided to “make the best” out of the situation, the Vulcan scientist noted observations of this very selective human ritual. 

There, Starfleet hierarchy seemed lessened, often mocked. Ranks served as monikers. Physical contact mandatory, as Dr. McCoy’s arm most likely found their way around Jim Kirk’s shoulders, one hand sometimes on his knee, and generally toward the end of the “movie night” either his head or his legs atop the captain’s. 

Almost overlapping the armrest, Kirk seemed at ease with that behavior, and sometimes encouraged it with others such as Lieutenant Uhura (who only rested her head on his shoulder when the movie tried to evoke sadness, or out of boredom), Montgomery Scott (who grumbled that he “would not succumb to his teddy bear charms, thank you”) or more rarely either Mr. Sulu or Chekov. As they themselves “cuddled” on the other end of the couch during the event, it was an unlikely occurrence. 

Only once had Mr. Spock found himself pressed in an entirely inconvenient similar way against his captain. After the latter had fallen asleep against him and drooled on his uniform, it was decided that for the Vulcan’s sanity, a second seat was necessary. 

However, as relaxing as this sessions strangely proved to be, this was still a starship in uncharted territory. Which meant that resting sessions were regularly interrupted when “duty called” (a metonymy Humans particularly appreciated).

-o- 

Jim hated to be bothered during his movie time. It was one of the very rare moments he could finally blow off some steam and be treated as an equal by his friends. He was ready to throw his communicator outside if it could prevent it from beeping. Especially during Star Explorers. Bones and him were team Captain Blonde (captain John F. Church and alien martial expert S’Aula “Blondie” Juh), while Uhura, Chekov and Sulu asserted that he was obviously having a lifelong romance with his best friend, the cold-blooded Admiral T. The 20th century TV show was well-known for its progressive ideas and representation, so it was entirely possible the captain was gay, they argued. Scotty only snickered.

The way they intently looked at Jim saying that raised goosebumps on his skin. Damn, even Spock looked at him _like that_.

Saved by the gong, or rather by the comm he had considered to make walk the plank, the captain urged to the bridge. 

Which was a mess, as usual. 

“Everyone calm down,” he shouted, taking place on his seat with a straight back and a cool head. Once everyone had effectively stopped panicking, he asked for a report.

“Sir, the navigating system had been infected with an entity which redirects it to…” She paused to look at her notes, then looked up, biting her lower lip anxiously. “To a planetoid too small to be registered on our maps. The navigation department however found it registered in Starfleet’s database, hm. It’s not where it’s supposed to be, sir.”

“Indeed it is not,” Kirk agreed, more to himself than to her. “Have we received any communication from them yet? Do we even know if it’s natural or not?” 

“It does not appear to be natural, captain,” intervened Spock from his console, his back straight as ever. “The technology used is primal but definitely manoevered by a sentient being.”

“There have been attempts at communications, but the language is not understood either by the computer or our experts,” supplied Uhura, long hair gracefully following the spin of her chair toward him. “It appears to be encrypted. However… well, you should hear it yourself.”

The language was unintelligible in itself, but the youthful tone of the voice carried an emotion which was difficult to decypher through the static. Scared, but also angry. Daring, yet careful. Moreover the accent was too close to Standard to ignore. What the hell?

“Can they hear us back?” he asked, aware that the pull was slow enough to leave them time to escape if needed.

“I think they can, but they don’t understand what we say either. I’m sorry captain, we’ve tried every known language and none seems to have worked.”

“I’m getting strange readings, sir,” observed Sulu, frowning at his screen. “It’s like… like the magnetic waves are laced with psychic waves, but no creature in the known universe can do that…”

“Well lucky for us,” Jim declared, bending slightly askew on his chair, “this is the unknown universe. Do we have any expert on psychic entities aboard?”

“I believe I am the closest there is to an expert on psychic abilities and entities,” provided Spock, raising from his desk in a fluid gesture and finding himself at Jim’s side in two quick strides. 

“Oh really?” he asked, turning toward him, trying to raise his eyebrow _à la Vulcan_.

“There should be no need to remind you that my people possesses kinetic psychic abilities, captain,” the other replied, accomplishing the eyebrow thing way better than Jim could ever hope to achieve. 

“Keep giving me attitude and there will be consequences, Mr Spock,” he grinned. It was no secret that, though unbelievably annoying, he loved Vulcan sass.

“I was not-”

“Just joking, Mr Spock; what is your interpretation of the situation?”

“Well, for one, the pull has stopped. The ship does not seem to have regained full control, as the ‘virus’ has not yet been eradicated by the IT and engineering teams. The planetoid listed as Kappa-967 is registered as a hostile environment, unfit for any kind of life. However, this is mostly due to its proximity with Syllae-A, a supernova of the Alpha quadrant. The probability of Kappa-967 being in front of us is mathematically null.”

Sitting straighter in his seat, the captain took a moment to think. What was an impossible rock doing nearly five warp-4 years away from where it was supposed to be? 

“What about a wormhole, like the one Nero created?”

“Illogical, our sensors would have picked residual particles.”

From the corner of his eyes, Jim saw the way Spock’s forearms tensed, which meant his grip tightened on his wrist behind his back. He decided not to push the matter.

“Do we have an explanation regarding why they stopped towing us?”

“Not yet sir.”

Suddenly, Spock flinched. It was not a dramatic cry of pain, or even a loss of balance, but Jim read it as such.

“Spock you okay?” he inquired, raising from his chair. “Should I call someone from medbay?”

“No. I…” Spock trailed, his eyes losing their focus. “She’s making demands.”

“She?”

“Repetition is unnecessary.”

“Fine,” the captain sighed exasperatedly, “what does ‘she’ want then?”

“She…” The Vulcan had to support himself on the captain’s chair. “Food. Warm. Water. Help.”

Then something seemed to snap and he panted as if he hadn’t been able to breathe. Quickly recovering his usual stance, Spock looked at his captain and said the most illogical thing: “we have to help her.”

“As Bones would say, Mr. Spock, are you ‘out of your Vulcan mind’?” asked Jim, frowning. As he found himself unable to get his friend’s eyes to stay on any point at all, he immediately ordered him to report to sickbay, despite his protests.

“Whatever she is, she’s vodooing your mind Spock.” He turned to the rest of the team. “Can we beam down there?”

“Yes captain… but it is highly advised that you wear a protection suit anyway, the air is incredibly hot, hover one hundred twenty.”

Jim almost grinned despite the situation. Of course they knew he would go.

-o- 

“Yeah it’s hot but not _that_ hot. I mean, have you been on New Vulcan recently? Guys basically roast themselves alive and-”

“While I do not doubt that you find Vulcans _hot_ captain, please focus on the matter at hand,” said Uhura in his comm. He could easily imagine the smirk she just repressed.

“Did not know you lowered yourself to ship gossip, Lieutenant,” he snarled back. 

Had anyone informed him that he would have to climb an entire canyon without the required equipment, he would have stayed in his chair. Somewhere under him, three red shirts were grunting as well. Only 60 feet or so separated them from the edge, but those were 60 feet under two scalding suns, under flaying winds which threatened to send them downhill with every blow.

Apparently, Spock had gone into one of his Vulcan trances, which did not reassure him. Funny that it took them a literal death to realise they cared for each other. Not that they would admit it aloud. They didn’t jump at each other’s throats anymore, unless chess was involved, in which case it was only metaphorical. Damn, he loved the look on his friend’s face whenever he lost. 

He probably made a similar face when, upon reaching the edge, he found a gun pointed against his forehead. 

-o-

The cell was surprisingly damp and cold, which suggested he was underground. Alone. 

As far as Jim was able to tell, the bars which constituted three of the four walls of his prison were only made of an alloy of some sort. An old-fashioned padlock held the door closed, which meant his escape would be easy on that part. Except he had to find a way to untie his hands from the stone wall first. 

Once his eyes had adapted to the obscurity, he took in his surroundings to examine his options. The single guard who arrested his team was nowhere to be seen. Somewhere on his left, another prisoner was resting on his couch. As far as Jim could tell, he was rather young and had light, short hair. The rest of him was hidden under a filthy blanket.

Rescue should be on its way, he reasoned. If Jim was right and the guard was only a space pirate trying to obtain a ransom for them, he chosen the wrong target. The boy moved.

“Got you too, dinnhe?” the other prisoner grumbled, stretching and yawning. 

If the voice wasn’t enough, Jim definitely got the confirmation that _he_ was a _she_ when she turned his face toward him. Some kind of black ointment had been applied around her equally as dark eyes, but probably not as a fashion statement, Jim guessed. Gaunt and small, the most impressive part of her were her bionic right arm and leg. The slightly stiffer right side of her face, along with the darkening of her sclera on half of her right eye also indicated mechanical improvement. He couldn’t see much more in the dark, but he guessed her eye could see much more than his.

“Been here for three days…” she continued, only pausing to spit. “Ain’t n’body gonna take care o’me situation. Guess I’ll die.”

“I am Captain James Tiberius Kirk,” Jim introduced himself. She barely raised one of her very dark, very straight eyebrows. “A rescue team had probably been sent already.”

“Don’ bother callin’ for help Jimmy,” she smirked darkly. “They ain’t gonna find ya here. It’s like -dunno, three stories under the ground? Plus the bastard’s got protection an’shit.”

Leaning back on her meager mat, the cyborg scratched her arm -the one made of flesh-, in a way that indicated skin disease. 

“But for one billion credits I could get ya out,” she grinned in a vicious way. “Plus one thousand for each extra.”

“Well, I don’t have them and my team is on its way so no thanks.”

Raising up, she glared at him with cold, emotionless eyes. 

“Notice how he din’take your comm? Can try t’use it, won’t work. Even if ye hands were free, I mean. Thankfully for me,” she said, switching something on her mechanical arm, which detached from its socket. “Mine is removable.”

The cyborg then rested her free hand on the socket, and to Jim’s surprise the arm moved itself as if suddenly alive. It easily slipped between the bars and climbed on him, swiftly working on his shackles. One minute later, he was free and the arm was back on its owner.

“Where did you get such an advanced prosthetic?” the captain asked, almost sure that this kind of technology was not available to the public. Especially not to a teenager in a pirate den, thousands of lightyears ago from the closest human colony. 

“Try ye comm now, Jimmy. Don’t work,” she continued, ignoring his question.

With a frustrated sigh, the captain realised she was right. The only thing he could hear was the strange message that kept repeating itself. As for the least used frequencies, he didn’t even receive static to indicate that they functioned. 

“As I said, I can get you out. If you pay.”

“And as I said,” replied Jim, pinching his nose and shutting his eyes tight for a second, “it will take much more time for the ‘Fleet to receive and discuss your request than for my team to arrive.”

“The Fleet? As in Starfleet?” the teenager asked, taken aback. Jim also noticed that she had dropped her accent. “Oh hell no, I’m not dealing with that shit.”

Opening a hidden panel in the wall behind her, she opened all of the cages as a door appeared at her right. Without as much as a look in his direction, she disappeared as it closed. 

However, it was too late for her.

-o-

Sitting on a bench, she looked like a war refugee. The blinding white of the Enterprise’s detention cells crudely highlighted how ragged she was. Silver veins ran all along the right side of her face, and one of her ears seemed to have been enhanced as well. Though, from the criss-crossing pattern of her scars, it was most accurate to say she had been repaired.

The rescue team had discovered stolen files in her private quarters, as well as the prison guard’s uniform, which she probably impersonated to give credit to her scam. As soon as she had been locked in, Mr. Spock had gone out of his trance, confirming that she was at the origin of the psychic attack. 

Many questions arose, to which she only answered with a calm, void face. Hadn’t he heard her talk, Jim could have almost believed she had been raised by Vulcans. Not a single sound had escaped her lips since the moment she found out she had been outwitted. 

“I just don’t understand, Mr. Spock. Why would she- what is….”

“Reports indicate that constant friction of your scalp can lead to an anticipated baldness, captain.”

Back at their usual stations on deck, they were both studying the stolen reports. As they dated from fifteen years in the future, and already seemed worn out, they could only guess she was part of the Nero divergence.

“She calls herself Amy,” supplied Spock. “I can safely assume that she is not aware of her psychic reach, as she would have otherwise tried to use it to coerce you into obedience sooner. I was not however capable to obtain other informations as her flow was chaotic and unconstant.”

“You mean she knocked you out from more than ten miles away.”

“And yet the tests showed that, despite her enhancements, she is at least 74,6% human.”

“What do you mean?”

“To simplify, one of her parents is human, and possibly one of her grandparents also. But hybrid genetics are not a vastly studied field, due to the rarity of compatibility between humans and other species.”

“Well, what would be the rest of her ancestry? Maybe this could make her talk to us.”

“Either Vulcan or Romulan, the tests aren’t conclusive.”

It took years of invaded personal space in the name of friendship for Jim to be able to recognize signs of embarrassment in Spock. Unlike his captain, who would blush and stutter, perhaps (certainly) make the situation even worse, the Vulcan only lowered his eyelids and pinched his lips harder. 

“You’re not telling me everything.”

“The results aren’t exact enough to be of any relevance in this case. When they are, I’ll make sure to inform you, captain.”

Jim sat straighter in his chair, and communicated the situation to the rest of the crew. Until Starfleet informed them of a drop point for the prisoner, or any local authority reclaimed her, they would have to suspend their journey. This would only be for a few days, he assured. Once the communication was over, Jim damned Starfleet for not having detailed protocols in that kind of specific event, which could have easily been predicted in the case of a several years long mission in deep space.

-o-

The hybrid was fascinating, from a scientific point of view. 

Her mixed genes had provoked in her both enhancements and disabilities regarding the assets of the possible species in her lineage. However she had lost her arm and part of her face, she appeared to have been born without her right-side leg, as no scar tissue could be seen at the joint. Spock also discovered that she was completely blind, but due to her mechanical eye and her unusually high psi-rating, it was no longer incapacitating.

The technology under her skin was far more advanced than what Dr. McCoy had been able to document him, proving further that she was indeed from Nero’s alternative timeline. Due to her apparent lack of awareness of that fact, he could only guess how she had ended up so far from the known universe.

“Please decline your full name, age, origin, name of parents and occupation,” he inquired, hands folded against his back as he faced the transparent force field of her cell.

She did not as much as blink. 

“What is your relation to the Romulan war criminal named Nero?”

Her eyes turned in his direction. She did not appear to have received Vulcan education, yet her emotional control was adequate.

“Nero is a very common Romulan name, and in the eyes of the Federation most Romulans are war criminals,” she calmly replied, with what the captain would have qualified as “sass”.

“The war criminal Nero,” he explained with a matching detached attitude, showing his padd to her, “is responsible for the attempted genocide on the Vulcan race, and destruction of Vulcan. As you already face trial, I suggest an honest answer.”

The cyborg Amy quieted for a moment. Spock waited.

As he had stated before, her psi-rating was exceptionally high. On the F’Jirah-Talau scale, she approximated an 8, which was higher than 87,563% of the Vulcan average, and only one point away from the Selepet species from the Delta quadrant. Spock’s was, comparatively, a 6. However, as an adult raised among the Vulcan people, his shielding technique was no less than excellent. Hers was non-existent.

“Captain. RED. Lost…”

“Am I correct to assume that Nero was your captain, Amy?” he inquired, letting her know that her thoughts filtered even through the psychic barriers of her cell. It was a reasonable risk to take, as the chances of her to stop thinking were few and the chances of talking reasonably high.

“He was not my captain.”

“But that is how you referred to him, am I correct?”

“No you are not.”

As well-versed as she was in concealing the truth, Spock noted the progress which represented her finally answering.

“Were you a prisoner of Nero’s?”

“Of some sorts.”

“Were you a slave?”

“Depends what definition you imply.”

“I imply that he coerced you into working for him, whatever the nature of the task.”

“In that case, yes I was a slave.”

“What was the nature of your work?”

-o-

Jim observed the exchange on his screen. Rapid-fire, almost monosyllabic retaliation from both parties; it almost looked like tennis to him. In the end, they knew barely more about her than general leads. She was an adult, though not from a long time, and she spoke only two languages: Romulan and Standard. The one she had used to lure them was gibberish. She was also as smart as she was careful. He could almost see her thoughts structure themselves into an escape plan as she talked.

Her story had a few loopholes, but as a professional bullshitter the captain knew it takes one to recognize one. The real reason of her presence on Nero’s ship was not something she intended to reveal, though it was probably linked to her mechanical parts. She did not know who her parents were, but hinted that she had been artificially engineered, probably by Nero himself, to test the limits of alien breeding.

He had a bad feeling about the whole thing.

As his shift ended, he joined Spock in the ship’s media center (which everyone called the library anyway) for further discussion. The place was rarely used, and he didn’t need to throw more oil on the blazing rumors that saw his first officer and himself as a couple by inviting him in his cabin during their free time. 

“The whole thing smells really bad, Mr. Spock,” he stated, warming his hands around his cup, comfortably seating on a pouf next to his friend.

“Did the replicator malfunction?”

“What- no, I mean, the situation. Metaphorically. Doesn’t smell good.”

“I’m not sure to follow you, Jim.”

“You know what nevermind. My instincts tell me we will have a very bad surprise in the hours to come because of that cyborg.” 

He blew on his coffee, wincing upon discovering that it still burnt his tonsils afterward. Spock only raised an eyebrow, the equivalent of a mocking smirk. Jim poked his side with his elbow in retaliation. In their current configuration, with Spock at a table on a chair, and Jim slouching further and further in his pouf, his elbow only managed to nudge the Vulcan’s hip. He did not seem to find it humorous, which of course Jim found hilarious.

“Anyway,” he asked, recovering a bit of his serious, “have you recovered from her psychic-thing?”

“If you mean her intrusion, yes. As it was unintentional, I have now learned how to block her and used the feed to obtain the informations written in my report of the interrogation.”

“Good,” the captain answered, his forearm now resting on the chair next to his friend’s thigh. Despite the layers of fabric and the absence of strong psi-points on this part of his anatomy, Spock was still able to feel some of Jim’s affection. It was not a burning passion, but not the dull warmth of friendship, rather somewhere in-between which made him think of a warm cup of tea and an interesting study. 

As it was not the first time he experienced such transfer, nor the first time he interpreted it that way, Spock simply did not push Jim’s arm away and kept reading. As he was a regular human, and thus psi-null, Jim did not perceive the affection he was sent back.

Exhaustion was clear in the slight tilt of his head, the weary flutter of his eyelids. Soon, Jim’s head found its way to use Spock’s leg as his personal pillow. In any other circumstance, Spock would have been embarrassed, but realising that the position did not bother his work, he allowed it. If anything, the body heat from his captain was closer to his preferred temperature than what humans favored aboard the ship. The sense of comfortable calm was unexpected, especially in regards to who elicited it, but welcomed. 

He went back to work.

-o-

 

The reports came in first thing in alpha shift. 

Blushing and stuttering, the technician insisted that the captain should consult them in private before anyone else could read them. Well, it would have to wait. The ‘Fleet finally sent its instructions, which were far from ideal. Admiral Mitchell, his former mentor at the Academy had apparently been assigned to the situation. As one of the few people to have intimately known his father as a cadet, Gary had always been a good friend, despite their age difference. If Jim was to be completely honest with himself, Gary had been more than a friend at some point. 

Ignoring the warm feeling in his gut, which almost chased the uneasy feeling he had had since taking in Amy, Jim greeted his friend professionally. Perhaps a bit more familiar than what protocol demanded, but no one commented on it. 

Once the communication cut, Bones was the first to react.

“So what, we’re going to drop a kid on a hostile planet, hoping the decorated ones lift their pinkies to do something about it? Might as well drop her in the void, would be less painful.”

“Orders are orders, doctor,” reminded him Spock, hands behind his back as usual.

“Oh right, because it worked so well the last time you sent someone to Delta Vega.”

“I fail to see the relevance of your arguments, doctor. As we can neither keep the prisoner in our cells for the remaining time of the mission, nor hand her to competent authorities in uncharted territory, this compromise is the most logical.”

The doctor huffed loudly, rolling his eyes and turning toward the captain, hands on his hips. 

“Sorry Bones, but I don’t see a better alternative. If we simply let her go, she’ll scam other ships, and it’s not like we can go back either.”

“She’s eighteen, goddamnit! That’s barely younger than Chekov!”

The Ensign turned around upon hearing his name, his face pleading not to be dragged in this conversation against his will.

“Which is precisely why we can’t keep her, she’s an adult in the eyes of the Federation.”

“You’re mad as cows, all of you,” muttered the doctor, crossing his arms and managing to look even grumpier than usual. “She clearly needs help, a kid like that is supposed to be in school, not… pirating in deep-butt space!”

“I agree,” tempered Jim, “but it’s all in Starfleet’s hands now.”

“Well, let’s just hope your pal Gary puts his mind to collect the peaches before winter,” Bones all but growled as he retreated back to medbay, probably to curse Starfleet, stars, space, and the world, in general.

-o-

The cyborg’s mind exuded of a dread like he had rarely witnessed at the announcement of her immediate future. Yet, as usual her face revealed nothing.

In the few days of her presence aboard, she had been given proper clothes and an access to hygiene facilities. With a clean face and hair slicked back, she looked more Vulcan than Human, despite her slightly rounder ears. However, she also looked shockingly similar to Spock’s mother at her age. Further tests would have to be conducted in order to determine if such ressemblance was only a matter of chance. 

“Don’t hand me over to _him_ ,” she immediately pleaded, her voice imploring when pride kept her eyes to do as well. 

“What are you referring to?” the captain asked for clarification. 

In the pallid lights of the detention center, he looked ill in a way which elicited discomfort in Spock’s mind. As his research informed him, adult Humans needed between six and eight hours of sleep each night. During the last twenty-four hours, the thirty-six minutes he napped on his Science Officer’s thigh had been his only rest.

“Mitchell, he can’t have me.”

“You will have to be more convincing for me to consider disobeying a direct order, young lady,” the captain answered, crossing his arms in a positive, yet contemplative stance. As per usual, his inner sense of morals led him to, indeed, consider disobeying a direct order.

“Captain, I’m not sure this is-” he started, only to be interrupted by a firm palm only his forearm.

“Let her speak, Commander.”

The cyborg teenager licked her lips, the only exterior sign of her interior turmoil. Raising his own mental shields, the Vulcan then extended them to his captain. Such a thing would not have been possible a month ago, or even perhaps a week ago, yet Spock found himself relieved when he found out it was.

“As the reports I stole must have indicated you, I’m a failed experiment. The man named Gary Mitchell wanted an heir to his psychic abilities, but any time he tried, the embryo didn’t survive. That’s when he decided to recreate the conditions of his own birth, 76% human, 24% Vulcan. But I was blind and crippled, on top of showing no psi-ability of any sort. So he sold me to an Orion slaver, who sold me to a mining company, and then I was hired by captain Nero. I worked for him until he managed to get in this timeline, then escaped. Fortunately for me, a bad timing -which is extremely ironic in this situation- led me to be transported at the other end of the universe.”

The captain’s perplexed, intensely blue eyes found his First Officer’s as a form of silent query. There were obviously still many gray areas in her story, but her thoughts had been aligned with it. Spock simply nodded.

“Even if you’re telling us the truth, Gary Mitchell’s guilt only exists in your timeline,” Jim continued, his shoulder closer to Spock’s than it had been before.

“Well, you’re still captain of the Enterprise, James T. Kirk, and Commander Spock is still your First Officer. What makes you think his madness would be any different?”

“Nonsense!” nearly shouted Kirk. “You’ve manipulated us once, it won’t happen again. I want two more security officers assigned to her, and a soundproof treatment.”

Spock nearly exteriorised the same surprise as Jim did when she threw herself against the panel. Disheveled, she looked on the verge of insanity as she hollered: “Don’t let him take me back, _please_! If you don’t believe me at least supervise the transfer from afar and you’ll know I’m telling the truth! When I’m dead I _hope_ the guilt takes you as well.”

Kirk turned her back to her as the sound suddenly stopped broadcasting, leaving her screams unheard. He didn’t look back.

-o-

Jim collapsed on his bed, his eyes closed for a moment. Spock carefully schooled his facial emotions as the tiniest sliver of his abdominal region showed under his shirt. As the captain had requested his presence in his private quarters, he could only guess that Jim would not fall asleep in front of him. Yet, he was prepared to act upon this eventuality when the other man jolted awake. 

“I know you want to ask about Gary,” he said in a slow, raspy voice. “To be honest, I would prefer to show you, if you could do the memory-sharing thing on me like Ambassador Spock did, it would be so easier… but I don’t want you to experience my ‘emotional transfer’, as he called it. Shit was pretty intense.” 

They looked at each other for ten point sixty-five seconds longer than a casual Human eye contact would last. 

“If this could be easier for you, I could initiate a mind-meld,” provided Spock. “As the current situation is not an emergency, I would be able to ensure a more comfortable transition and avoid unnecessary emotional transfer.”

Using one elbow to rise himself from the mattress, Jim’s face indicated pain, but also a form of tenderness which was reserved for those kind of moments. 

“Thank you, Spock,” he simply said, smiling softly.

“As you seem to be suffering from the effects of your lack of sleep, I would suggest that you lay down next to myself.”

“You’re not buying me dinner first?” asked Kirk, his smile turning into a cocky grin.

“I fail to see how-”

“Don’t worry, it was a joke. Let me just get into my pajamas before, I think I won’t be able to stay awake for long.”

The Vulcan nodded, accepting his captain’s request to dress similarly. As comfortable and protective as they were, Starfleet uniforms could provoke a muscle stiffness which night clothing did not. Once both facing each others under the covers (Jim had insisted that they would get cold otherwise), the captain looked at him expectantly. 

As though his first mind meld had not been pleasant, he seemed eager to share his memories with Spock. His smile was… inviting. Coming further to reach out to his face, he barely registered he may have come closer than intended, unless Jim had mirrored his intention. Their knees barely touched, but it was still scandalous, by Vulcan standards.

The moment his fingers came into contact with Jim’s face, it all stopped to matter.

-o- 

This was _nothing_ like his first mind meld. Sure, Ambassador Spock had taken care not to hurt him, but his despair and the emergency of their situation demanded for a less careful transfer. Nothing like the gentle caress of his Spock’s touch. 

What he felt could not properly be described by his mere physical senses. It was like finding shade on a scorching day, waking up in a warm bed, watching fireworks. Spock’s mind was the fall of fine sand between one’s fingers, to be blown away by the simplest gush of wind. 

He sensed they both took a moment to relish in the wonderful compatibility, not really focusing on anything else than the way they touched, melded with one another. 

_Show me, Jim_ , help felt Spock asking.

And so he showed him.

The first time they met, how Gary had been the first to praise him for going against the current all the time. How they had talked, bonded over a love for adventure and tinkering. Mitchell had already been a science instructor at that time, yet a little over a decade only older than Jim. Their friendship had been purposely kept out of the benches of the Academy, which had not impeded its blooming. He had even considered stopping being Bones’s roommate to become Gary’s, at some point.

Dressed as teenagers, they partied all weekend and saw it as a personal challenge not to appear hungover on Monday mornings. They drank a lot, danced a lot, touched more than was reasonable. However, Jim had been 23 at that time. Less experienced, more vulnerable. 

Spock felt a hesitation before Jim continued, resolved to show him the whole story. A sense of burning shame uncomfortably seared the edges of his -their- mind, which the Vulcan shielded away from that moment. 

James had been as close as to be in love as a teenager who got regularly laid with the same person, which he basically used to be. The forbidden aspect of it all made him only more eager to push the limits. They had played the game of cat and mouse for two months before getting in each other’s pants as often as they could. It was unhealthy, but Jim didn’t care. He thought he was in love.

One day, all of it stopped as quickly as it had started, and they agreed that it had been a mistake. Gary was seeing someone else, someone with whom he intended to build _something serious_. Bones had been trying to glue back the pieces of Jim’s heart for the rest of the year. 

Sleeping around, with as many as physically possible, Jim had ever since stayed away from “love”. Until recently, at least.

Spock guessed Jim was starting to fall asleep in spite of himself, so instead of helping him to stay awake, he gently guided his mind to a peaceful patio in Iowa. A little boy was watching the stars.

Forgetting all kind of decency, Spock wrapped his arms around his friend and let the little boy guide him through his dream. 

-o- 

“She did _what?!_ ”

Propped on his elbows, the captain looked at Spock with a mixture of emotions ranging from chagrin to anger, expressing empathy in a way which pushed him to defend his friend’s honor even though it was completely unnecessary, as he explained:

“As T’Pring’s logic achieved the goal of pursuing maximal adequateness of living conditions, the sense of insult you perceive is misplaced, Jim.”

Laying in a position perhaps less utilitarian than their respective ranks would have commanded, Spock tried to untangle their legs. Unsuccessfully. Despite his superior strength.

“She can’t just tell you she’s seeing someone else and break up while you’re two quadrants away, that’s like Bitch No 101.”

“As using animal metaphors is seldom flattering when used under the rule of anger, I would ask you not to iterate further insults. Rather than being ‘a bitch’, she has adequately used circumstance to put an end to a bond which was decaying anyway.”

“Still,” grumbled Jim, performing a human ‘pout’. “That’s kinda bitchy of her.”

“You mistakenly seem to understand that I would have preferred the bond to remain. While practical, it was far from satisfying. As both of us had external interests, it was destined to fail whatever our actions. Furthermore,” he added, closing his eyes as Jim’s hand _almost_ grazed the naked skin of his hand, “the fact that she was able to having removed without requiring my presence can only mean that she had already formed another, sturdier, bond.”

“Yeah but first Uhura and Gaila, now T’Pring and Sto-whatever-his-name. If it were me, I’d feel bad.”

“I don’t,” replied Spock honestly, eyes still closed. “As I said, I have ‘exterior’ interests.”

The light scratching sound could only be attributed to Jim’s habit to rub his neck when about to ask something even he considered inadequate. The bed was warm from their rest. At 0300 the captain had informed him that the heat made the wearing of t-shirts superfluous. Had Spock been human, he believed he would have fought the express regret not to possess nocturnal sight. As a Vulcan, he barely stated that no, he wasn’t bothered by the lost item of clothing.

“...someone I know?”

“Yes, Jim.”

“Please tell me it’s not Bones, that would be so awkward.” Even with his lack of understanding of subtle human emotions, Spock was still able to sense the strain in his captain’s voice.

“No it is not.” Spock allowed himself to hesitate. The situation had almost equal chances of failure has it had of success. As his eyes had stayed closed, he hadn’t seen but felt the reduction of the space between their respective persons. Jim’s exhales comfortably caressed his own skin in a way which challenged his emotional control. His palms tingled, though it was probably from his arms having spent too much time in the same position. 

“Spock…” 

From what he was able to calculate, their respective faces were approximately three inches closer than they had previously been. This analysis was corroborated by the increased pressure of Jim’s weight on the bed, which had the consequence of bringing both of their bodies closer.

“Captain, this is Lt. Sulu reporting. We arrive at the meeting point in twenty minutes. Admiral Mitchell seems to have already arrived, but all communications are disturbed by a static storm.”

Spock’s eyes opened as a way to accompany the sudden snap of his body in a more professional position. Behind him, the captain gritted his teeth and got up as well. As they clothed formally, without looking at one another, the Vulcan sorted his thoughts. This moment was not over, merely delayed. The question was, why had it been so important in the first place?

-o-

He should have received a golden fucking medal, with his name and as many stars as times people should have listened to him on it. As far as his personal tally went, they would have better put a map of the Alpha quadrant directly. He would proudly wear it next to his Science pin, to enjoy the simple pleasure of rubbing it into people’s faces. Especially one person’s, momma’s-boy-with-so-perfect-features, face. 

Damnit. He was a doctor, not a moral compass. 

As the blonde idiot and the pointy-eared idiot led their captive to the decorated idiot, the idiot pilot reported to Lieutenant Uhura. Had she not been there, he would have gladly rechristened the ship himself as USS Idiotprise. Painting several miles worth of letters on the dish by hand seemed the least he could do to warn other people of the real contents of the ship. 

He felt himself boil harder than his granny’s sweet tea on a Sunday. 

The kid they were dragging to penitential camp was just that -a kid. And not a very healthy one, as her DNA looked more like a jenga game about to be lost than anything else. She needed a hospital, possibly a psychiatrist, not some creepy guy who almost caused Jim to quit the Academy, and go back to his miserable excuse for a life in Iowa. 

Just as he started to seriously taking into consideration to have to cure Jim and possibly Spock of a sudden and unannounced disease, his comm bipped. Why couldn’t they have bracelet-looking ones like _everyone else in the known universe_ never failed to increase the already grand-canyon deep line between his eyebrows. 

“Can’t expect you to finally get some sense in that overrated head of yours, so what do you want, Jim,” he properly barked.

A sigh. Some very Vulcan-sounding remarks about ranks and insubordination.

“Look Bones, the place doesn’t look very safe and I need someone who can react in case any harm comes to us. Or to her.”

“What, Jim T. Kirk has finally remembered that I’m a doctor and not some intern you can forget anywhere in the ship as long as they have a map?”

“Don’t take it like that, you know I trust you better than anyone else.” A silence. “Don’t look at me like that Spock, you know you’re both in my heart.”

“Y’all’d’ve better dropped the heart-shaped eyes when I get there or I might have an allergic reaction to put yours to shame, Jim.”

“Be quick or I can’t promise anything,” the captain teased.

In spite of himself, Bones felt a rebellious corner of his mouth tug upward. 

-o-

Admiral Mitchell was exactly as McCoy remembered him. I.e. _stay away from Jim, you creep_. Nothing indicated creepiness on the outside, not the pretty smiles and the youthful handsomeness, nor the polite image of care and respect he affected. His pronostic was final: a terminal case of douchery with an asshole topping, rolled in jerk sprinkles. 

Even being as psychic as a plastic cup, the doctor could feel the kid’s fear as they approached. She was downright terrified. And he felt sorry for her. Sure, she had attempted to rob them, but her plan made sure no one was harmed. It went as far as not knocking Jim out, but injecting him with a light sedative solution. 

It felt unfair to hand her over like a bag of semi-mechanical potatoes. 

Then the Admiral started to try to convince Jim that his research could end any war, any suffering. As if. His hands were on him, not entirely inappropriate, but enough to look like seduction. His smiles ignored the other three, who for once all agreed in their cringe.

It was common, if not usual, for the captain to flirt with every vaguely humanoid creature they met. Bones had finally come to understand that it was as much a reflex as breathing or being allergic to more than half of the medicine they could legally have on board. The Admiral was even worse. Yet, a certain green-blooded hobgoblin looked one court-martial away from nerve-pinching Mitchell. 

When the storm was rerouted in their direction by the Admiral’s genetically enhanced psychic abilities, Bones could have hardly said he was surprised. As they took refuge under a rock formation, he felt a headache coming just thinking about all the patching he would have to perform once the situation was over.

Starfleet really needed to have more frequent psychological exams of its admirals.

-o-

_”I’m offering you eternity at my side,”_ Gary had purred, his breath leaving his skin red-hot with desire. _”Come with me and we’ll be unstoppable.”_

The thing which frightened him the most, clenched his heart and guts with a frozen iron fist, was how close he had been to accept. To go back to how things were, even if they were far from perfection. Even if he knew, deep inside, that he had just been another pretty face/hole. Jim was a creature of connection, as close to desperately needing affection as can be. Something about his childhood, would probably say Bones, had he not been trying to reanimate hilm.

Sensations were stretched in an almost uncomfortable way, either too much or not enough, feeling like they were not supposed to be where they were. Feeling like his ears had been trying to see. 

It was impossible and yet happening: three sets of images flashed in front of his eyes. The eye of a tornado, from inside. Under a pile of rocks, reluctantly letting go of a hand to arm a phaser. And his own, lost in the comfortable darkness of unconsciousness. The electric shock which jolted him awake had not been expected.

“James, wake up.” The too young, too fragile voice which ordered him with more authority than a Vulcan matriarch was non other than Amy’s, who was probably at the origin of the shock.

“Wha-”

“Your pal Mitchell turned out to be the total psycho I warned you he was,” she explained in a strained voice. If dirty, her face was as emotionless as it had been on the ship. “Turns out when he discovered that in this universe the experiment _lived_ , he overrode Starfleet’s protocols to be affected to the missions. An Admiral would have never been bothered for a simple prisoner’s transfer, especially one that has shown no sign of violence. Hadn’t you been mating last night, you would have picked up the incoherencies.”

“I wasn-”

“It doesn’t matter now. Your First Officer is trying to take Mitchell down by himself and I can’t let him do that.”

She looked at him with such resolve, such intensity, that among the myriad of questions he could think about, the only one which came out was: “Why?”

A genuine smile stretched her lips, and the ressemblance hit him like a freight train. 

“Because my name is Amanda Winona, and I just understood why.”

Then she got up and launched herself in the storm. 

Two bodies were later found by the investigating teams.

-o- 

The old familiar burn tore off his throat for a moment, before lighting its comforting fire down to his stomach. It was awful; it was perfect. Death always tasted less bitter washed away by liquor. Powerful beats of a music he didn’t have the cultural proximity to enjoy overwhelmed his ears. Black shirts stuck to his skin, as did the perfume of that bold Orion woman who had tried to flirt with him. He probably looked less bad than he felt, but not by much.

Split lip, split eyebrow, split spleen, split heart. Had he not been occupied with Spock’s surgery, McCoy would have probably sedated him to ensure he would stay in medbay. He should have, given that Jim started to feel the bioglue holding his skin together give up to the strain. 

“I need a doctor,” he groaned to no one in particular. A man a few feet to his right adjusted his bow tie, muttering something along the lines of “no soldiers”, before rising up. No one noticed the blue door he opened, which had previously not been there at all. The captain in particular failed to look at the corner of his eyes.

The incessant buzz of his communicator made him smirk. There was a crass joke to be made related to his back pocket, where the comm was. Yet, no one to hear it. It was probably Bones, or Starfleet, maybe even Uhura. He didn’t care. Was too drunk to, anyway. 

Watching the offensively pink drink he had ordered with a mixture of contempt and appreciation, Jim decided that he envied Vulcans. Being able to rule one’s own emotions, it almost felt like a superpower. In the span of a few seconds he had gained a daughter and an enemy, and lost both of them. If her assumptions were right, Mitchell had truly been a psychopath from the beginning. 

He couldn’t have taken any Vulcan’s DNA, oh no. He had to take a hybrid’s. Spock’s. 

That orphan technically had had three dads, two of them former lovers now enemies, two of them former enemies now… now friends. Not what he wished for, but what he would never give away. Damn, he was pathetic.

The comm buzzed again. 

Jim held it above the oversized, glittery plastic cup. A single drop and he would be alone for the evening. The last time he had behaved so irresponsibly had been more than three years prior. Bones had been pissed. Spock had been irritated. Pike had been disappointed. 

“Captain Kirk here.”

“Thank g- somewhere- music!!!” managed to understand Jim, as the deafening beats covered whomever’s voice it was. Paying for his consumption (so much? it was a miracle he could still walk straight, to be honest), the captain got out of the shabby place. A heavy, dark grey slush fell from the sky. Unsure that the thing wouldn’t dissolve his skin, Kirk managed to squeeze into a smaller, protected alley.

“You inebriated cornfed redneck excuse for a Starfleet Commanding Officer!”

“Good to hear you too, Bones.”

“Get your flat ass in medbay immediately! At this point I don’t even care if you die of sheer stupidity, but I bet you’d care if I lost your First Officer because of it!” the doctor hurled in his ear, to the point that Jim had to recoil from the communicator. “ _Where. Are. You._ ”

“I just sent my coordinates to Mr. Scott. What’s going on Bones?!”

But the doctor had already ended the communication.

-o-

Upon waking up, Spock found himself in the most peculiar situation. Vulcans usually do not sleep, instead preferring far more efficient meditative trances which had the benefit of not allowing illogical dreams to interfere with their minds. During the Pre-Reform era, “dreams” had indeed had a religious and spiritual role in the society, as their meanings were often believed prophetic. As a result of Vulcans’ already intense interest (some would say, passion), for mathematics, it sometimes happened to be the case. 

Having experienced such unconscious manifestations in his early childhood, Spock had found in them mere pointless distractions, nor could he make sense of them in a logical way. Sarek had been most pleased to teach him the proper meditation techniques involved in giving the mind a resting moment without losing its logic.

As he could not comprehend the current situation, Spock determined the probability of it being the scenario of a dream up to 56,8%. Seeing Jim’s hand tightly cradling his, Spock raised the probability to 65%. After all, dreams were known to involve ideal situations for those who experienced them.

This train of thought was implemented by the captain’s attire: why would a Commanding Officer wear a Nurse’s surgical gear? The lights were dimmed, yet he could definitely observe the civilian clothes underneath. Sound asleep on a chair, Jim looked exhausted. 

Deciding that his friend’s rest was of utmost importance, Spock merely turned his palm up, so that both were pressed against one another. It was only logical, of course, as it allowed maximal comfort without disrupting their blood flows. Allowing himself to review the events leading to this particular situation, he closed his eyes. Jim’s steady pulse accompanied his thoughts as he recalled. 

Admiral Mitchell had been one of the most incredibly psi-gifted individuals Spock had met in his lifetime. Even the most trained Vulcan scholars having passed the ritual of Kolinahr only rarely managed to attain such level. Without the intervention of the prisoner, who herself possessed great abilities for her age and species, the Admiral would have most probably executed them. 

Spock failed to understand the logic of the captain’s refusal. Had he accepted the proposition, he would have benefited from great many advantages, as well as protecting their lives from Mitchell’s fury. Given their common past, Jim Kirk would have found himself a suitable mate in the bargain. Not an ideal one, but a suitable one.

He almost startled when Jim’s fingers tightened around his, as all signs indicated that the captain was still asleep. His stubbled jaw rested next to their joined palms, rubbing uncomfortably against Spock’s sensitive fingers. He would have to suggest that his friend observed more strictly the official regulation regarding Human and Humanoïd species facial hair (Code of Moral Conduct, art. 42, alinea 7). 

Yet, if aesthetics were concerned, Spock indeed had a personal preference for his captain’s unshaven face. For his face in general, if one had to admit the honest truth. 

“Why Mr. Spock, thousands of stars to look at and you chose me.” 

Unpreparedly having to face rising sun’s gleam of his captain’s smile, Surak help him, _yes he did_. 

-o-

The surgery had lasted hours. Not that it was critical, just hard to perform on a body of its own unique species. Bones had been positively murderous about Jim’s absence. Not only was he (reluctantly and never to be admittedly) concerned about both of them, but he had also discovered the existence of a mental link between them. Well, the correct term he had used had been a long and complex one, derived from Ancient Golic, which Jim only knew because he had helped Bones revise once during their academic time.

He, however, knew how Spock called it. _T’hy’la_. 

Jim had learned as Spock’s deep, dripping caramel voice had made the skin of his neck ripple with pleasure. The agonizingly slow drag of his silky fingers on his own, rougher ones, had been even worse. It left him a crimson panting mess. When their mouths collided with few regard for the multiple tubes attached to their persons, Jim was almost sure the buzzing colors which had bloomed in his mind had meant something. 

-o-

Bones was _done_. He hadn’t studied that hard to monitor two sickeningly _in love_ idiots who couldn’t have the simplest respect for their transfusions. Banging the door, or at least attempting to since those damned things only slided elegantly, he had left them to their make out session. 

Oh it wasn’t like they were married, merely engaged if he recalled his Vulcan law classes right. Disgusting. He hoped they would at least have the decency to name their kid after him, who had saved their damn asses so many times. 

What he never expected was them to ask him if he agreed to be the third DNA donor. Apparently, as ethically wrong as it was, Mitchell’s research had proved that the green-blooded hobgoblin was not sterile as they had thought him to be, just not completely. And for that they needed a third party. The awfully happy couple, five years after, had decided that they wanted a child they could know and love, in honor of her memory. 

Call him a sap if you will, how could say no to that?

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fanfic! It has been a lot of time and efforts, especially to make Amy a believable character. I am really stressed out by the whole OC shaming I've seen on the internet, which pushed me to do intensive research before I could even think about creating one. Hope you've liked her as much as I do!
> 
> All comments are enjoyed, especially if you see things which need improvement (I'm not a native speaker) :-)
> 
> PS: I just realized it's biologically impossible for a baby born from the DNA of three men to be a girl... let's just say that Vulcan chromosomes are weird... sorry science people :P   
> PPS: also let's just say that the 23rd century has the necessary technology to do that. Please. I'm bad at science.


End file.
